Made not of gold but of dust
by Marayanna
Summary: "King Arslan of Pars, born 306, died 330. Attempted to end slavery". A note in dusted chronicles is all that is left of him now.


The great ones always die so very young, is what people will say centuries later.

The great ones, the kings who dreamed of changing the world, the adventurers and heroes guided by some inner righteous light that pulled other people along, that created a movement of change and enthusiasm and hope, a powerful wave that gained momentum until it seemed to stop at nothing.

Until, of course, it did stop at something. An assassin, or an illness, or a lost battle one too many. The reason, always, so inane compared to the enormity of the destiny it ended.

They die so young, rocking the foundations of the world with their bright-eyed fight for the future and leaving future generations with nothing but theories and speculations. What could have been, had the fortune played differently. What would they accomplish, had they been given their chance.

_King Arslan of Pars, born 306, died 330. Attempted to end slavery._

A note in dusted chronicles is all that is left of him now, of his battles and his friendships, his wars and peace treaties. One name among so many, on the long list of kings and emperors and usurpers. Each with their own stories, their own goals and dreams and followers who believed in them dearly. Each dead now, forgotten but for a name in the old books, books nobody reads anymore.

Except, not quite.

The great ones die young, yes, but they live blazing. And their lives become legends and songs, whispers and tales passed down and remembered generations later. Shifting and changing until it is near impossible to tell a difference between real events and fiction, myths and actual lives, to find a seed of truth in lush and unbelievable stories that surround them.

And as time passes, less and less people even try. Less and less people even care.

Legends can't be trusted, but then again, they are all that is left from centuries so long past that they disappear over the horizon of history. And whether they're true or not, isn't it pleasant to listen to tales so wonderfully magical, so incredibly glorious? Stories of feats of strength that was impossible, but only nearly, of battles so fantastical that they couldn't have happened, or maybe? Of love and friendship so great it could not be real, but gods, how wonderful it would be if it could.

Legends have it, that king Arslan was the kindest and most beloved king in the history of Pars. That his smile melted evil from the heart of Sinduran king, that his conviction made people right their ways, that his bravery alone was able to turn Snake King Zahhak back in his tracks and ensure the land's eternal safety.

That the earth itself shook in anguish when he died.

Legends have it, that after his death, his first knight Daryun was so lost in grief and pain that he held a lone vigil by his master's grave for thousand days and thousand nights, not sleeping and not eating, until the gods took pity on his loyal soul and turned him into stone, so that he could watch over his beloved master forever. And so he does, to this day.

Legends have it, that the king's tactician went near mad with guilt and heartache. The man who created the trickiest schemes and plans in the realm, with the sole purpose of laying Pars at his masters feet, and would continue to do so until Arlsan ruled over the whole world, if only that had been his wish. The hailed genius, unable to foresee the upcoming attack until it was too late. The wisest man of his age, who couldn't save his king's life when it counted the most. Blaming himself for the rest of his days and never preparing a single strategy ever again. Living the remainder of his days in the shadows, lamenting and pouring his pain into poems and paintings.

Legends have it, that king's closest friend, Elam, never stopped crying after him, never stopped grieving, and all the tears he wept created the lake that lies by the king's tomb to this day.

Legends have it, that Farangis would visit the grave every single day for the rest of her life and her steps would create the ravine leading to it, they have it that Alfreed's shouting and wailing can still be heard when the wind howls in the nearby forests.

That Jaswant and Gieve had left, led on the wings of their despair, disappeared back to Sindra or further still, never to be heard of again. But the warm rains that wash down the mountain slopes some days are said to be their tears, sent from afar.

The legends say a lot of things.

And perhaps it is better this way. Perhaps it is easier to listen to tales and fables like these, so beautifully sad, so satisfyingly heartbreaking.

It's easier than hearing the truth.

The tears of loyal servants are romantic to those who never loved a master so greatly. The sadness of friends left behind makes for a wonderful tragedy to those who never had to bury the body of the man they were ready to follow forever. The legends are stripped of the crushing reality of hopelessness, the true darkness of grief.

No one would ever understand what went through Narsus' head when he heard that an attack was happening, one that he didn't prepare for. How fast Elam ran, how fiercely Farangis fought. How many times Jaswant would replay this day for the rest of his life, thinking of what he did and what he _should_ have done when the enemy struck him down and bared the king's back to the attack.

No one would understand what Daryun felt when he saw the blow coming down but was too far away to react.

When he saw the body hit the ground.

Legends have it that king Arslan was the kindest and the most beloved king in the history of Pars.

And who knows, he might have been.

Still, all that is left of him now are legends and songs, with seeds of truth and blossoms of myth. The stories of a king and his people from centuries ago, who once thought they had all the future in the world. The stories of impossible loyalty and the most daring dreams, and love, love so strong it must be just a fable, simply because it could not have been real.

The people whose only remains now are the echoes of steps in the ravines, the winds howling between the trees and the lakes that, like tears, had never dried.


End file.
